


and i longed for your touch

by redstaronmyshoulder (CaptainAmelia22)



Category: Star Wars Episode VII: The Force Awakens (2015)
Genre: Armor, F/F, Ficlet, Phasma is in charge all of the way, Stormtrooper Culture
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-28
Updated: 2016-09-28
Packaged: 2018-08-18 09:06:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,633
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8156698
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CaptainAmelia22/pseuds/redstaronmyshoulder
Summary: Phasma isn't afraid to give orders. And some of her troopers aren't afraid to follow them.





	

Phasma’s troopers knew the sound of her footsteps and the rasp of her cape on the Finalizer’s cool floors better than they knew their own heartbeats.

It was fear inspiring, the steady thuds of boots and the faint clank of armor shifting. It was fear inspiring and exhilarating.

“She’s coming. What does she want?! I haven’t done anything! Did you?” FN-2187 hissed one day, his voice trembling through his helmet’s modulator and FN-4783 glanced at him. 

“Calm down 2187,” she sighed, clipping her blaster to her leg holster and rolling her shoulders a bit beneath her back armor. “The Captain isn’t here for you, she’s here for me.”

Her companion’s blank gaze turned to her from the closed blast doors and she could almost see his frown. Could almost see the fear in his eyes.

She knew FN-2187′s animated facial expressions better than she knew her own blaster. 

She smiled behind her bucket’s frown and reached out to grip his shoulder, just as the blast door slid silently open and the source of their fear appeared in the doorway, in her chrome glory. 

“It’s going to be fine 2187,” she murmured, just as the Captain’s gaze settled on her and a single finger crooked in her direction. “Trust me.” 

“FN-4783, you will report to my quarters for re-conditioning immediately.”

Phasma’s voice was cold. Dispassionate.

Uninterested.

FN-4783 could feel the heat of her pale blue eyes burning through her armor and her heart stuttered behind her chest armor while her hands went clammy in her gloves.

“Yes Captain,” she said, her voice just as cold as their commander’s and she stepped away from her post, away from FN-2187. “Right away, ma’am.” 

Phasma stared at her for just a moment, the security booth’s electronic panels reflected in the flat black lenses of her scarred silver bucket, and then without another word she spun on her boot heel and swept back through the blast doors, her cape swirling about her feet.

“Return to your post, FN-2187,” she muttered, her voice crackling through the modulator. “My replacement will be here soon.”

And before he could protest she retreated after their Captain and made her way from the security dock to officer’s quarters, three floors up.

She could hear Phasma’s heavy boot falls, always a few twists in the hallways ahead of her, could hear the faint swish of a ragged cape hem on the floor, the creak of plate armor as it rubbed together. 

She tried to keep her heart calm.

Tried to keep her own footsteps steady.

Her back straight. 

The Captain didn't approve of slouching or sweaty palms.

Finally, she arrived at Phasma’s quarters, a minute or so behind the other woman and she took a deep breath, her fingers resting lightly on the butt of her blaster which jutted against her hip. She took comfort from the familiarity of her weapon.

From the cool door facing her, too familiar now.

She breathed the filtered air feeding through her bucket’s recycling unit and closed her eyes for a moment, whinging a silent prayer to her barely remembered gods.

Something she’d undoubtedly be executed for should Hux or the Captain ever find out about.

The Captain’s door slid open silently and FN-4783 stepped through into her commander’s sparse quarters.

Phasma stood in the middle of the room, her legs spread shoulder-width apart and her arms crossed over her chest. Her blaster hung beside her bed, safety on. 

4783 stepped closer, her ears pricking when the door slid closed behind her and she reached down to unclip her blaster from her thigh, setting it aside on the small eating table tucked in the corner across from the bed on the other wall. 

“Captain,” she said, her voice even. Disinterested. Cool.

Her heart raced.

“How may I assist you tonight?”

Phasma was quiet for a moment, the faint hiss of her bucket’s air unit the only sound in the dimly lit room. And then she lowered her arms and said, “Assist me in removing my armor, FN-4783.” 

The order was familiar and not necessarily needed, since this was the third time they’d stood in this space together, 4783′s heart racing beneath the chest plate and her eyes wide behind the tinted lens of her bucket. 

But Phasma was the Captain and 4783 appreciated orders.

Appreciated commands.

She went to her Captain.

At the very bottom of the First Order’s trooper height requirement, the top of her own bucket barely reached the Captain’s nose and tonight she laughed quietly to herself at the realization, reaching up to unsnap the shoulder clasps of the cape first. 

Phasma glanced down at her, the chrome in her bucket reflecting a blur of white that 4783 knew was her own armor. 

“What are you laughing at, trooper?” Phasma growled, the vocal mod crackling and snapping with the interference from 4783′s. “Do you disrespect me?”

4783 shook her head. “No Captain,” she said quietly reaching around her commander to pull the cape free from her shoulder. “No, it was just my recycler hiccuping. It’s been doing that lately.”

Phasma considered her before raising her right arm, silently ordering 4783 to remove her wrist and gauntlet armor. 

“You should have that inspected, FN-4783,” the Captain said, her voice echoing sternly. “We wouldn’t want your recycler to malfunction while on mission, would we?”

“No, Captain,” 4783 murmured, ducking her head to focus on the cool metal greeblies holding the gauntlet in place. They snapped free and she carefully removed the silver plate, revealing the buckles that held Phasma’s gloves in place. 

Three buckles, the wrist armor stiff and unyielding on the Captain’s long hands, and the glove armor was removed as well, its droid finger bits clinking and chiming as the digits clashed together

Phasma watched as 4783 set the armor aside, on their respective shelves lining the back wall of the Captain’s quarters and she raised her left arm when the trooper stepped back into her space. 

4783 was quiet, focused on unclipping the armor and keeping her heart rate even.

Phasma sighed when the gauntlets and wrist armor were finally removed and she stretched her fingers, letting the joints pop for a moment; the bicep pieces were next, their clips stiff and battered.

"I will remove the helmet, trooper,” she said and 4783 nodded, already moving to the Captain’s side to start unbuckling the chest plate from the back plate. 

Phasma’s arms rose, with some difficulty due to the stiff shoulder armor shifting and pinching, and she lifted the bucket, which released with a hiss of cycled air. 

“That’s better,” the Captain sighed, her voice no longer echoing.

No longer crackling.

Wisps of sweaty blonde hair tumbled across her forehead, freed from the bucket’s confines and the required balaclava all troopers (and commanders) must wear. 

Phasma rolled her neck on her shoulders, eyes closed wearily, the faint cracking of her spine the only sound other than the shifting of the rest of the metal covering her body

4783 moved to her other side and released the last two clips keeping the chest plate attached to the back. 

“Arms, Captain,” she ordered, lips curling when Phasma snorted lightly, but complied. 

“Don’t forget yourself, 4783,” Phasma said, her voice not quite as imposing without the modulator. But still chilling. 4783 and her fellow troopers knew that this woman didn’t need silver plate to be terrifying.

They knew she didn’t need the helmet to be imposing.

She _was_  Phasma. 

She didn’t need an archaic weapon or a familial name to be in charge.

She just _was_.

4783 couldn’t help but smile as she lifted the plate chest and back pieces off in one go, the shoulder bells dangling off the yoke. 

She stumbled when the weight of the armor settled against her and Phasma’s hands reached out to steady her, helping her set the bulky armor aside. 

The two women straightened, quiet, and Phasma’s hands slid along the undersides of 4783′s forearms to cup her elbows, her palms warm through the gaskets 4783 wore. 

“Belt next, I think trooper,” Phasma said, sharp blue eyes thoughtful as they gazed into 4783′s bucket. 

4783 nodded and stepped closer to her Captain, bending her head to better see the hidden buckle tucked between ammo boxes and pouches. It sprang free and she caught the heavy belt with a soft curse, gathering it into her arms, being careful to not scratch the chrome boxes. Phasma took it with a wordless grunt and set it aside with only a cursory glance. 

4783 bit her lip, ever thankful that the bucket hid her warming cheeks and what she was sure was blatant heat in her eyes as the Captain’s body was slowly revealed.

This was a familiar feeling.

And one she tried desperately to not think on when she wasn’t here in the Captain’s quarters.

The shoulder and bicep gaskets where next, the heavy rubberized fabric sliding off of the Captain’s arms and chest, the dual snaps dangling between her breasts for a brief moment before tumbling to the floor.

“Cod and ass, next, Trooper,” Phasma said, her voice rasping and 4783′s fingers trembled briefly, turning to the hidden snaps tucked along the inside of the complicated garter system Phasma wore to keep her lower armor in place. One-by-one the cod snaps came free, the webbing loops that held everything together dangling and Phasma turned once the cod was removed, revealing the hard swell of the ass plate. 

4783 swallowed heavily, sliding her gloved fingers along the underside of the belt, between the webbing and the Captain’s hard body, until she found the first snap and she slid her thumb under the snap’s cap, pressing it free.

Two more and the ass plate was free. She caught it quickly, setting it aside with the cod on their shelves. Webbing and snaps dangled from all of the armor, a tangled mess. 

But Phasma didn’t seem to care. 

She turned forward once more, The only thing left her leg armor and 4783 shivered at the sight of abdominal muscles shifting beneath the slick black undersuit, of the soft swells of breasts freed from their armored confines, their curves highlighted perfectly by the fabric. 

“Boots next, 4783,” Phasma ordered, eyes hooded and her hand rose to press into 4783′s shoulder, silently telling her to fall to her knees for this task. 

4783 complied, settling to her knees stiffly and she focused on the cool metal spats with their tiny clips tucked behind the metal along the stiff leather of the boots. This was the most complicated part of Phasma’s armor. 

She almost didn’t notice the Captain’s fingers settling on her helmet, rasping along the sides with their ocular implants. 

Almost. 

“Sometimes I miss the white armor,” Phasma said and the spats were set aside to be placed on their shelves later. “The simple anonymity of it. The simple knowledge that all I must do is follow orders and shoot rebels. That is all that is expected of Stormtroopers. Two simple tasks. I miss that.” 

4783′s fingers hesitated on the boot armor, halfway through the process of removing one set and she glanced up, her eyes struggling to see the Captain’s face through the tinted lens of her helmet. 

“Captain?” she said, her voice hitching when she realized how close she was to Phasma.

To the shadowed juncture of hip and thigh.

She longed to press her face to that space, to taste.

This was the dangerous part of being in Phasma’s quarters.

The space.

Or lack thereof. 

Phasma scowled and pressed 4783′s head down. “Continue your task, trooper,” she snapped, the softness in her voice gone. She’d removed the balaclava and neck seal, her short blonde hair spiking up in every direction as it dried. 

Sometimes it was hard to remember that beneath the chrome frown there was a woman with sweat dripping down her forehead just like the rest of them.

The boot armor was removed and Phasma used 4783′s head as a prop as she balanced on each foot and let 4783 remove the boots.

Her soft sigh of relief was almost hidden as she stretched her toes and 4783 smiled, massaging the arch of each foot briefly before setting it down and moving to the respective calf armor.

Greeblies unclipped and the plate stretched free, revealing the hard swells of musculature and 4783′s fingers ran from ankle to the back of knee briefly, her breath hitching when the muscles shifted beneath her touch and Phasma’s body swayed into her hands.

“Gaskets, next, 4783,” Phasma said and even through the air filtering through 4783′s unit she could smell her Captain.

Smell the musky scent of her and was that arousal?

Was that...desire, she say in the other woman’s icy eyes?

“Yes Captain” she said, the gaskets sliding into her hands, the knee caps still attached and she took a deep breath.

The only thing left...

“Thighs.” 

Phasma’s voice was rough and 4783 nodded, still on her knees and she raised herself a bit, palms sliding smoothly over the Captain’s right thigh bumping across the holster to press into the jutting bones of her hips. 

The garter system was complicated, the black webbing nearly indecipherable from the undersuit and she eased her fingers beneath the warmed metal of the upper thighs to unclip the heavy metal clips connecting the piece to the belt. Two clips, one at the front, the other just to the side of the ass and the first thigh armor slid free into her hands. 

Phasma’s leg lifted, giving 4783 the freedom she needed to set it aside and the Captain was strange, no longer plated in armor. 

4783 longed to touch.

Longed to have her own armor off so she could feel the sleek muscles beneath the soft black fabric. 

The last thigh piece was heavy in her hands as she sat back on her heels, bucketed face raising to gaze up at her Captain.

She felt desperate.

Desperate for approval.

For praise.

For her body to be close to her Captain’s. Without her white armor. 

Phasma took the last piece of armor from her hands and tossed it aside, ignoring the now huge pile of armor beneath the shelves. 

“On your feet trooper,” she ordered, voice biting and 4783 hurried to comply, her own armor weighing her down; Phasma’s hands settled on her elbows briefly helping her up and she took a breath as she raised herself to her full height.

Even without Phasma’s boots on, she was still drastically shorter than the Captain.

“You did well, trooper,” Phasma said, hands rising to cup the rounded jowls of 4783′s helmet. “You have my thanks.” 

Her eyes were sharp with something unreadable, her brow furrowed in a small frown as she gazed down at the trooper in her hands. 

“Of course, Captain,” 4783 murmured, cheeks warming beneath the white expanse of her bucket. “Anything for you.”

Phasma’s head cocked and her lips quirked in a small smile.

“Anything, trooper?” she asked, closing the little distance between them. 4783 could feel the warmth of their bodies through her own armor. She could feel the Captain’s heart beating rapidly through her chest plate.

 _Or is that mine?_  she thought, her mouth dry now. Her eyes wide. 

“Yes,” she whispered through numb lips, her breath catching despite the circulator. 

“Good,” Phasma growled, hands raising the helmet free from 4783′s head and before she could respond, she was bing pulled up into a fierce kiss. 

Fabric brushed along slick white armor and both women groaned as their tongues tangled and teeth nipped at swelling lips. 

“Touch me,” Phasma ordered and 4783 complied.

Because how could she ever disobey her Captain? 


End file.
